


Running on Fumes

by neitherbluenorgreen



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Feelings, Making Out, a lot of fire images
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24216916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neitherbluenorgreen/pseuds/neitherbluenorgreen
Summary: First person narrator has been working with Steve Rogers before and after the latter vanishing. But since he's back, everything seems bleak while she's fighting to keep away and burn herself.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Running on Fumes

At first it was easy. It was _good_. He was back and that was all that mattered. The world had settled back into its natural way, bringing back stability and peace. I could go on with life, no longer feeling paused, safe in the knowledge that he was here and breathing and real and warm and…

It began to grow harder as time moved on. I felt like a comet in the orbit of a distant sun. While he was the center and everything moved around him, set on their own paths, I was tumbling, hurtling through space, not able to defy his gravity but neither able to settle in the orderly way others had. I wondered how people were able to mold their life around him, without everything else being eclipsed. How they were able to share a limited time with him, go home and keep on living. They were able to not be in his presence and still breathe and think and even enjoy life. I couldn’t. Every moment apart from him had grown torturous. It seemed like it was harder to breath, the world washed out, colorless, until he was there. While at first the mere knowledge that he was no longer gone, that I was able to see him again, to hear his voice, to look into his eyes seemed enough to bring me peace, it wore thin. I had stayed on the edges, doing my duty, but limited all interactions, all real contact with him. At first, he was swamped with other things, people needing his attention right away, while he navigated the wake of his absence. I couldn’t have acted differently, then. He was too much for my senses, intoxicating me until I feared I’d overdose. His smell was still everything it had been – metallic, in the way that warm copper smells, flexible, but strong and sunshine, like his skin had soaked up the sun and would not contain it, and the smell that was so him I couldn’t find a way to describe it, except with the feeling of an open road before you, the moment you stand at the edge of a canyon, the wind buffeting you and you are overcome by the beauty and scope and history… When I lingered, my head began to swim, making me dizzy and I had to excuse myself. Sometimes, his gaze lingered on me as I fled, but soon his attention would be drawn to something important, something urgent, something on the other side of the spectrum from me.

I tried, for a few days, to stay away entirely, to get him out of my system, but it grew impossible to think of anything except him. So small doses would have to suffice, to keep me alive, if not well.

To come back to the image of him as the sun: there are people who everybody connects to. Venus, Neptune, and our moon have little in what be called a relationship, except that they all exist in the same solar system, their dance through space anchored to the sun. With him, it’s the same. He can’t pass somebody in the hall without being known, without that person feeling - knowing - exactly where their place is in his ecliptic. If I pass somebody in the hall, chances are that they can vaguely put me into a cardinal direction, but though being part of a greater whole, we don’t connect. The others had their own support systems, spouses, families, hobbies a community outside of work, but I didn’t. I missed so many connections because I put my life into work, into him really. It was pathetic, in a way, but the better I was in my duty, the less of a life I had outside of it. Astonishingly, it was the same with him. When he didn’t work or eat or train or sleep, he looked for work. He appeared at social gatherings but stayed at the side-lines. If somebody talked to him, it soon turned back into work. I know some tried to get him to relax, to join their sports team or book club or whatever. He politely declined so many offers to ‘get together after work’ that there were rumors the serum destroyed his libido. My performance at work didn’t suffer, quite the opposite. But colleagues started to worry, telling me I looked drawn or stressed, offering good advice. I got some invitations, too, but I couldn’t accept. They wouldn’t understand that their presence without him would only make me nervous. Everything I did, I did with him in mind – would he need this? Would he like that? What did he think about those?

My neighbors were a bit more successful, tricking me into spending time with them by claiming they needed help and inviting me to stay after.

A message from HR caught me by surprise: I was to meet with one of their people regarding the review of my work. A pang of fear went through me – if my performance had suffered after all, if I had to leave… I couldn’t linger on that though; the sense of loss opened a pit of bleak dread in my stomach that I couldn’t face.

At the appointed time, I found myself face to face with a young psychologist. She started by telling me my performance hadn’t suffered at all, if anything they marveled at the hours and the quality I put in. “There is some concern about your health, though,” she said warmly. “You are well regarded among your colleagues, but nobody seems to be able to connect to you.” I shrugged in acceptance; it was true. “Has there been a loss in your life? Are you grieving?” she probed when I didn’t volunteer anything.

“No, I just concentrate on work at the moment.”

She watched me a moment and nodded then. “There is no doubt about your passion for your work, but we worry about you. When you started, you were easy-going and social. Looking at your work-hours and late-night emails, you can’t have much of a life outside these walls.”

It wasn’t a question, so I just shrugged again. She sighed. “Look, we all were hit hard by what happened, but mostly everybody is bouncing back. Especially since Steve is back, people have regained hope and are able to enjoy life. Everybody, except you and…,” she paused.

Looking at the display of her handheld, she frowned. “Would you excuse me for a moment?” She hurried out and I got up, going to the window. Gazing out I wondered at the hustle and bustle outside. People milling about, all with purpose and a goal. A wave of uneasy washed over me when I tried to fathom the multitude of relationships and paths and connections each one of them represented.

The door opened again and without turning around I said: “I appreciate your concern. I’m just having troubles finding something except work that feels important. It’s as if everything else is just…”. I trailed off at the end of the sentence, knowing not quite how to put it. A much deeper voice than I had anticipated offered: “Everything else is just shallow and meaningless?”

At the same time, I recognized his voice, I could smell him. Copper and sunshine and cool water hitting the streets on a hot day. I turned around, evading his gaze. He was a few feet away, towering, warm, real. He had kept his beard, as if to show he had changed, he wasn’t the same man he had been before. It somehow made him seem more dangerous, less civilized, less bound by rules and orders.

“I didn’t know it was you, sir,” I murmured and took a step towards the door, hoping I could evade him, evade his pull.

“They called me in,” he said with the attempt at a smile. It looked tired and weary. “Said we’d might be able to help each other.”

I paused, looking uncertainly toward the door. “Sir?” I asked, not able to think or react.

He sighed deeply. “We know each other longer than this, I think. Even if you skitter away from me.”

I swallowed hard. “I’m not…,” I stopped, looking up.

His eyes were fixed on my face, his brow wrinkled in concern. He raised his hand as if to touch me, but let it fall to his side again.

“I did, yes,” I admitted. “It seemed…” I paused again. Prudent? Less dangerous? He looked out the window.

I felt as if had broken something. I took another step towards the door. This time his hand grabbed my wrist. His eyes were still fixed on the horizon. We stood side by side, facing opposite directions.

“They are all just going on. We lost so much, and we fought so hard and even if the scars are fading, we still have these embers inside that keep burning. We’re afraid that the slightest breeze could ignite the fire again. And we don’t know where to direct the flames to. If there’s no fight, won’t we burn everything else?”

His monologue froze me in place. The words seemed to sear themselves into my flesh and my soul echoed with the truth of them. He turned to me, releasing my wrist.

“I missed our talks. Before, everything seemed easy and the consequences were a light weight to bear.”

“And now, if we open our mouths, we need to censor ourselves, lest we spark something we can’t extinguish,” I replied.

He looked at me and I didn’t evade his gaze this time. I kept my back straight and faced him. He shifted and it seemed to me as if he were trying to look less intimidating. He pulled back into himself and I realized he had taken my words as censure. I grabbed his hand and shook my head.

“Don’t,” he murmured. I suddenly remembered how I had seen him evade touching or being touched, keeping a safe distance from everybody. I tightened my grip, not letting him move away.

“So, you may touch me, but I’m not allowed?” I asked with a smile, trying to lighten the mood.

“I’m sorry for yanking your arm, but…,” his words faltered as he decided not to lie. I turned his hand so I could look as his palm. It was large and calloused. I studied it, while trying to clear my mind. This was more time than we had spent together for a long while, the first that we were alone. His fingers twitched, by he didn’t pull away. I could feel his muscles work as he tried to keep himself still.

Without looking up, I told him: “I’m not afraid of you. I know you want to tell me I should be, but that not true. You are still you, even with all that happened. You soul was battered, but not broken. There is one thing I’m afraid of, though.” I let go of his hand, keeping my head down. I couldn’t look at him, afraid I read him wrong, terrified of making a fool of myself. I could not stop now, I had to bare myself to him. A hum vibrated in his chest, prompting me to go on.

“I have been avoiding you out of fear. Fear that I might forget myself. That I might touch you and burn. I feel so cold, but I’m afraid that if I let myself go, I will go up in flames and leave everything around me in ashes.”

He had gotten very still. I didn’t want to look up and see amusement or disgust or pity.

I forced myself to go on: “You are the only thing in my life left that feels real and makes sense. And I know that the fire could destroy me, but I’d rather go up in flames than keep toeing around the embers without feeling their heat.”

He righted himself up and I could feel determination radiating off him. Was he steeling himself for a “It’s not you - it’s me”-speech? He reached out for me and I flinched back.

“Look at me,” he murmured, but I turned my head away. He repeated his words, this time growled, an order. My head snapped up and the look on his face took my breath away. His determination seemed to be focused on my lips and his wide-blown pupils told me that he wouldn’t reject me. I stepped closer, setting a hand on his chest. I don’t know if I wanted to steady myself or placate him or was getting ready to push him away. His big hand covered mine and he bent towards me. His lips were slightly parted, and I licked mine out of reflex. He tilted his head slightly in question and I nodded. When he didn’t move, I leaned in and brushed my lips lightly against his. I felt him sigh against my skin. I placed my other hand on his shoulder and tried to relax. Our lips brushed again, and his free hand slipped around my waist. At the same time, we took a deep breath and kissed. First it was almost chaste, mouths closed, eyes open. He leaned his forehead against mine and huffed a small laugh.

“I’m warning you,” he whispered. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”

I put my hand to his cheek and tilted back his head. Looking into his eyes, I said, putting all my determination into my voice: “I wouldn’t want you to.”

I was a bit surprised at how throaty I sounded, but it had the desired effect. He practically lunged at me, spinning me around and walking us a few steps, so my back was against the wall. Pressed together, we finally let caution go and opened up. His lips were soft, and his mouth hot and it felt like the distance between us was too much to bear. We melted into each other, my hands in his hair, pulling him closer and his arms around me, molding me against his body.

There was no more holding back when our tongues met, and I could finally taste him. When he pulled away after a while, taking a deep breath, I fought against a moment of dizziness. His beautiful face was flushed, and his eyes sparkled. His hair was ruffled, and I could feel his heartbeat against my chest. I pushed him forwards, until his ass hit the desk and he scooted back, sitting with his legs spread, so I could step between them. It was my turn to bend down to kiss him and when his hands wandered down my back to grab my ass in moaned into his mouth. I leaned into him, reaching for the hem of his sweater, when I heard a soft noise.

I glanced past him when there was a soft “Oh, my,” and the door was hastily pulled closed again. I couldn’t help but snort and stepped away from him. He grinned up at me.

“I think we need to find a more private place,” he admitted. I just had time to nod before he pulled me back towards him, murmuring “just one more” before claiming my mouth again.


End file.
